


Little Star

by secret_samadhi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ace!Dean, Creature Castiel, Cute Castiel, Dean Winchester's Freckles, Fluff, Freckles, Kisses, M/M, Octopus Castiel (Supernatural), Pet Castiel, Tentacles, asexual!dean, freckle kisses, naps, nothing bad happens, octo!cas, super fluffy, they are just cute together, tiny!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13493984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_samadhi/pseuds/secret_samadhi
Summary: Dean is Ace, Cas is his pet half-octopus, and nothing hurts.





	1. Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharkfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/gifts).



> Dean wants to scoop that octopus out of that tank. He wants to let it wrap its little navy tentacles around his arm, or even his neck, and let it sniff at him more, if it wants; he wants to touch his finger to its hair to see if it’s as soft as it looks, he wants to find out what “Chu!” means because it’s so cute that he wants to say it back but not if it’s some weird octopus insult.

_Little star_  
 _I had to close my eyes_  
 _Came travelin’ from all the town_  
 _For you, little star_  
\--Little Star, Stina Nordenstam

 

Dean is asexual.  He’s cool with it.  Just means there’s all kinds of stuff that seems to tie his friends up into knots that he doesn’t have to or want to deal with.

But he’s going through kind of a rough patch lately.  Because, and not to put too fine a point on it, Dean is  _ hot _ .  He doesn’t flaunt it, not even a little bit.  He wears jeans with holes in them and three layers of tshirt/ flannel shirt / army surplus jacket at almost all times.  The rest of the time he’s in his mechanic’s coverall.  He doesn’t use product in his hair, he just scrubs a towel through it when he gets out of the shower and calls it good.

And you know what his last boyfriend said about the towel through the hair, though?  That it was  _ hot. _  Coverall?   _ Hot.   _ Knee poking out of a hole in his jeans?   _ Hot. _

His last boyfriend wanted to fuck him.  Real bad.

And his boyfriend before that.  And his girlfriend before that.  The string goes back a long way, all the way back, to one extent or another, to his first “girlfriend” when he was 8.  Charlie.   _ She _ didn’t even want to kiss him, it was bliss.  It turned out that that was because she was a lesbian, though, so he’s not sure how much it really counts.  They’re friends now, at least, so he supposes that it turned out ok.  Even if  _ that _ means that his mos successful relationship to date was with a lesbian when he was eight years old.

He says this to her, one night when he has had maybe one too many beers.  They are both lying on the floor of his apartment, feet up on his couch, backs on the floor.  

“You need a pet,” she says.

“Mma get a pet,” he replies.

“No you’re not.  You’re all talk. You’ll wake up tomorrow and make some lame excuse like ‘oh, it’s too much responsibility Charlie, I was just drunk.’”

“Not gonna.  Mmm gonna do it.  The pet part.  Gonna pet a… pet.  You’ll see.”  

She slugs him in the arm with her empty beer bottle.  “Whatever you say, handmaiden.”  Then she belches an  _ amazing  _ belch.

 

****

He goes to the pet store the next afternoon.  The  _ exotic  _ pet store, he doesn’t want to limit his options.   _ Loki’s,  _ it's called.

He thinks a bunny might be a good idea, but he learns from the little card on the side of the bunny cages that they don’t like to be snuggled.  Snuggling is job 1 for a pet, in Dean’s book.  And also jobs 2 and 3.    

For obvious reasons, this, rules out snakes and reptiles and birds.   _ Especially  _ the parrot that calls him an asshole as he walks by.

He would have thought it ruled out octopi, too --slimy-- but as he crosses away fun the bunnies and the salamanders and into the more exotic section of the pet store, thinking he might consider a chinchilla, he sees a tank with a single, tiny, half-octopus in it.

The octopus is clinging,  _ clinging _ to a stick in its tank.  It's got dark navy tentacles, so dark they are almost black, with white suckers that fade into a sky blue as they merge into the tentacle beds.  Where the cranium would be on a full octopus, the half-octopus has a standard issue human torso and head.  It’s got black hair that looks soft, the way it waves in the tiny currents of the tank.  And it’s got its eyes closed.  It looks like it’s snoozing, snuggling up to its stick, hair waving in the tank breeze.  

It’s about the size of a melon.  

Dean reads the little card on the side of this tank.  A half-octopus needs a salt water environment, and lots of company because they are really smart and get bored just swimming around in their tanks.  They have simple language capabilities and can learn to communicate well with caretakers who they stay with for a long time, sometimes even telepathically, in special cases.  Dean likes that, he likes the idea of a pet he can talk to, but even so he’s still not so sure about the slime factor of snuggling a half octopus. (Even though this one just… looks… so… cute snuggled up to its stick).    

He goes over to look at the chinchillas.  

“Hi, I’m Gabe!” says a yellow neon starburst hand lettered on the chinchilla habitat.  It only has one chinchilla in it right now, a tiny little golden furball with long ears.  It looks  _ very  _ snuggly.  The little card on this tank confirms that impression, and invites customers to “Go ahead and pick me up:  I love it!”  

Dean smiles.  This is looking good.  He checks the price on the side of the habitat.  $75.  He can afford that.  

He picks up the golden fluffball-- Gabe.  He raises it towards his chest, to see how it would feel snuggled in the cradle of his arm.

And it  _ bites  _ him.  It bites him!  Right on the hand.

And… can chinchillas  _ growl?   _ Is this chinchilla  _ growling  _ at him?  

Dean re-positions his hold, grabbing on to this growly chinchilla by the nape of its neck, and holds it up face to face.  It  _ bears its teeth  _ at him.

What the fuck kind of pet store is this, with growling, biting, chinchillas, parrots that call the patrons assholes, and seemingly no employees anywhere in sight?

Dean puts Gabe back in its habitat.  It would be extreme to say that he “tossed” it back in, because Dean’s not the kind of guy who is unkind to animals, even growly ones that bite him, but the rate of chinchilla-returning-to-habitat displacement is  _ much  _ higher than the rate of chinchilla-being-removed-from-habitat displacement.

His feet wander him aimlessly back to the octopus.  

And it’s still sleeping there, so sweetly, its little eyes pressed closed and its little hands and tentacles wrapped around its stick and its soft looking black hair waving in the tank current.  It doesn’t look like it would bite him.  It doesn’t look like it would growl at him.  

Dean checks the price on this tank.  $300.  Much more expensive than the growly chinchilla.  He lowers the price tag back down slowly, sadly.  That would really push his budget.  And it’s probably slimy, anyway, no matter how cute it is ...  

But then, before Dean can walk away, maybe check out a plain old Guinea pig, the half-octopus opens its eyes.  They are sleepy, for a second, but when they see Dean standing in front of the tank, they open really wide and Dean can see they are blue.  Too blue.  Too blue to be in a human face.  They might even flash, for a second, but maybe that is just the reflection of light off the water and glass in the tank.    

The half-octopus throws itself off its stick, so it can plant itself on the face of the glass closest to Dean.  Its eyes open even wider--how?  How could they get any wider than they already were?  How can they be so big and so blue?  

It sort of tilts its head to the side, and it looks like it sniffs the air, even though it is submerged under water.  It sniffs, and its whole little body shivers, and it sniffs again, and shivers again.  It blinks five times, really fast, and its tentacles wave around like crazy in the water, and then it starts flipping head-over-tentacles around and around, like it just can’t decide what to do with itself.

Dean still can’t figure out how its eyes could be so blue, or so wide, but he’s also a little worried that his scent (the motor oil?  His cheap old spice body wash?) has given this little guy a seizure, and he doesn’t know what to do.  He looks around, but still doesn’t see any staff members in the pet store.  So he does the only thing he can think of, he taps a finger softly on the side of the tank, near the octopus’ head.  Like maybe if he can get its attention, it will stop freaking out?  

It seems to work.  As soon as Dean taps, the little octopus pauses in its cartwheels, looks out at Dean (upside down, with its hair hanging down.  Just… so… cute…) and rights itself.  It puts its little hand on the glass, right over the tip of Dean’s finger, where it has lingered on the tank.  Its whole hand just barely covers Dean’s fingertip.  It tilts its head at Dean.   

“Chu!”  it says, in a sweet, chirpy little voice.  

Dean wants to scoop that octopus out of that tank.  He wants to let it wrap its little navy tentacles around his arm, or even his neck, and let it sniff at him more, if it wants; he wants to touch his finger to its hair to see if it’s as soft as it looks, he wants to find out what “Chu!” means because it’s so cute that he wants to say it back but not if it’s some weird octopus insult.

Unlike Gabe’s habitat, though, this tank doesn’t say anything about whether it’s ok to pick up its occupant.  

Dean turns around, to try to find someone to help him.

But the moment his back is turned, before he even takes a step, he hears little knocks that sound like-- suckers on glass.  A whole bunch of them.  He smiles, he feels a smile on his face, and he turns back around.  

The half-octopus is waving at him, all its tentacles, frantically.   _ Don’t go away _ , it seems to be saying.  It looks like it might start doing its panicked flips again, starting to rock one way and then another, higher and bust like it might flip all the way around, like the dragon boat swing at a state fair.  

Dean steps back, and puts his finger back on the outside of the tank, then, when that doesn't seem to be enough, his whole palm.  “Shhhh,” he says to the little octopus.  “Shhhh.”  

It cocks its head.  “Chu?”

Dean doesn’t know what that means, so he shakes his head, but he keeps his palm on the glass.  “It’s ok, little guy.  I’m gonna take you home.”  And he is, he realizes in that second, no way is he gonna let his little octopus friend panic into spinning around like a pinwheel again.

He removes his hand from the glass, and points a finger at his octopus friend, and then back at himself, and then at the door.  The octopus squints at him, like it doesn’t quite get it, so he repeats the series of gestures.  Octopus-Dean-Door.  

Very slowly, with a big smile dawning on its face, the octopus repeats the gesture.  Pointing at itself, then Dean, then the door, then looking up at Dean with its eyes open and huge to see if it got it right.  

“Yes!”  Dean is so proud of his octopus.  It's so smart.  “Yes!”  He holds up one finger.  “One minute. Just- one minute.  I have to pay for you, and get food and stuff, and…” the octopus doesn’t understand a word he is saying, he realizes, but it is looking up at him with huge smiling eyes anyway.  He shakes his one finger.  “Just… one minute.  Yeah.”

He turns around again, to go look for help  _ again _ , thinking that they’ve got that settled, but as soon as he starts to walk away again his octopus starts chirping like it is in distress and when he looks back its tentacles are all bunching and unbunching in fast, panicked, waves.  

So you know what, fuck it.  Dean picks up the whole tank-- it’s not too big, it’s clearly only sized for one melon-sized half-octopus-- and carries it up towards the front register.  Its inhabitant calms down immediately, and coos, and squishes itself up to the tank where it presses against Dean’s chest.  Dean finds himself cooing back at it and singing it an absurd little song as he walks to the front of the shop.  “Shh shh little octopus, shh little guy, gonna take you home with me.”  And he does.  

 

*****

The three hundred dollars for the octopus, it turned out, included the tank and salination materials, and since the octopus is only half octopus, it can eat human food that is on the octopus side (tiny pieces of fish, seeweed, clams, mussels, even worms but Dean decides right away he is not feeding his sweet little pet worms.)

He takes it home (sloshing in the backseat of his Impala all the way-- somehow sounding like a happy slosh), and puts the whole tank and all the peripherals on the island in his kitchen.  He leans over on crossed elbows and stares into the tank at his new pet.  

It’s bouncing around in the water, almost  _ vibrating _ , it looks so happy.  It keeps turning its head and sniffing the air; each one of these sniffs in a new direction sets off an explosion of cooing and tentacle coiling.  

Dean takes off his army surplus jacket, and rolls up the sleeve of his flannel.  His octopus stops turning its head to sniff the air during this procedure and zips over so it can be as close to Dean as it can while still in its tank.  It's taking a million tiny little huffing sniffs, each one accompanied with a tiny squeak, like he just can’t  _ believe _ what he’s smelling.  Dean spends much, much, longer finishing rolling the cuff of his flannel over than he needs, so he can watch this behavior.  

He confirmed with the pet shop owner (a short, shifty guy who seemed like he needed to cough up a hairball) before he left that yes, it is ok to remove a half-octopus from its salt water tank and it won’t suffocate or dry up or anything unless it stays out for way too long, and that half octopi are smart enough to be able to tell when that is going to happen and get back in their tank, as long as it's nearby.  

So, his flannel finally good and firmly rolled, Dean dips his hand into the tank.  He bites his lower lip a little bit, because he is still a little worried that it will be slimy snuggling an octopus, and then he doesn’t know what he’s going to do because this little guy is squeezing his heart already with its little sniffs and its panicked spinning and its bunching and unbunching tentacles and little cooed “chu!”s and Dean wants to be  _ snuggling _ it, not looking at it through a pane of glass.

The instant his hand breaks the surface of the water, the octopus zips away from where it was pressed against the glass to bombard itself around Dean’s hand.  Its tentacles wrap between and around his fingers and its extra ones wrap around his wrist.  It even hugs its arms around Dean’s thumb, pressing its cheek against it and chirping constantly.  

Dean lifts his arm up, out of the water.  His octopus stays bunched around his hand, squeezing even tighter with its arms around his thumb.  Its chiprs are louder and clearer, now that it is not submerged.  

It’s not… slimy.  It’s not dry either, but it doesn’t feel slimy, like snot or raw chicken.  It feels… smooth.  Like glass, but softer.  Like the the sparkly green paint on the bike he had when he was ten, warm, like the sun was shining on it, wet, like after a rainstorm.  He runs the thumb of his free hand over the tentacles wrapped around his wrist and they are so much smoother than skin.

So not slimy.  Not slimy, at all.  

When he runs his thumb over a sucker, his little pet shivers in his arm and makes a little growly sound.  At first, Dean thinks it might be about to bite him, like Gabe did, but when he looks at his little friend’s face he realizes it’s  _ purring _ .  Dean smiles to himself, and keeps running his thumb up and down over that tentacle, feeling the smoothness, keeping that purr going, feeling something rumble in his own heart as it gets deeper.  

“Chu!”  the octopus says, suddenly, opening its eyes back up big and blue and startling Dean.  It unlocks its arms from its death hug around Dean’s thumb and reaches out towards Dean and makes grabby hands.  “Chu!”  

Dean cocks his head to the side, the same way he saw the octopus do when he was trying to explain that he would take it home, back at the pet store.  Trying to convey that he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what that means.  

His octopus must get it, because it bites its lip like it is thinking, and its tentacles pulse around Dean’s hand.  Its eyes look very worried while it is thinking, like this is very important.  Then it must have some epiphany, because they light back up, big and round, and it unbites its lip.  

“Chu!” it says again, and then very daintily presses a sweet little kiss onto the pad of Dean’s thumb.  Then it looks up at Dean with a radiant smile on its face, its eyes squeezed almost shut in happiness, its fists all balled up against its chest like it just can barely hold that happiness inside.  “Chu!”  

It points at Dean, it points at itself, and then it starts to chirp again “Chu! Chu! Chu! Chu!” while once again making grabby hands at Dean:  like its kiss on Dean's thumb was not at all what it wanted; only a demonstration.

Dean thinks he knows what ‘Chu,’ means now, and what his pet is asking for with its grabby hands, but he wants to be sure.  He points at his own mouth, slowly.  Just as slowly, he points at his pet’s forehead.  And, uncertainly, says “Chu?”  

This is almost too much for the little guy, it seems, as it starts chirping at hyper speed “Chuchuchuchuchu,” and its tentacles squeeze and release so hard that it almost falls over backwards into the water.  

“Ok, little guy, sshhh, it’s ok,” Dean says.  “Calm down, buddy.”  He tries to make his voice soothing, and he rubs his thumb over the tentacles on his wrist some more, extra slow, extra gentle, to try to calm the little guy down.  

It takes a deep breath, with its eyes closed.  Then it reaches its arms out to Dean and makes grabby hands, this time silent, like saying its little word is the key that makes it panic.  

Dean raises it up to face level, and then kisses it as carefully and gently as he can on the forehead.  “Kisses,” he says.  “Chu.”

It exhales, like it has been holding in a little bit of every breath it has taken in its whole life in preparation for this moment, and slumps forward against Dean’s chest.  Its tentacles loosen up a little on Dean’s hand, so Dean moves it on to his left shoulder and helps it position itself wrapped around his neck.  It leans up against his face so sleepy, and its skin is dry now, and warm, and not slimy at all, when it whispers “kisses”, beatifically, like it is saying the  _ Ave Maria _ , and kisses Dean on the cheek, and then falls asleep curled up with its tentacles wrapped around Dean’s shoulder and its body squeezed in under Dean’s chin.     


	2. Naps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its heart must be sweet too, just like its snuggles, and its little huffing breaths and the way it lives for kisses.

Chapter 2:  Naps  
  
 _You may be my lucky star_  
 _But I'm the luckiest by far_  
\--Lucky Star, Madonna

  
  
Dean stands there in his kitchen with his little octopus snoozing on his shoulder.  It’s slumped against his face, completely trusting him to support it, and he tears up a little, that such a sweet little creature would trust him so much.  He could squish it under his foot in two seconds but somehow it knows that he won’t, and that… tugs at his heart.  He wants to be that good for his little octopus.  He wants to be that sweet.

His octopus’ tentacles pulse a little tighter and a little looser with its breaths, which whistle just a tiny bit on the exhale and are sometimes punctuated by a little sniffle and a little adjustment of its face to be even more nuzzley into Dean’s neck.  How could Dean have ever thought a half-octopus would be slimy?  How could he have ever thought that a hairy,  _ growly _ , chinchilla would be better than  _ this _ ?

Dean wipes the tears welling up in his eyes gently with his right hand, trying to move easy and slow so he doesn’t disturb his pet’s nap on his left shoulder.  He’s not sure what to do while he has an octopus asleep and snuggled up around his neck; he's never been in this situation before or even one remotely like it.  He doesn’t want to move too much or make too much noise and wake it up, but he also doesn't want to just stand still in his kitchen like a useless dildo.

Still with his right hand, he reaches down into his pocket and pulls out his phone.  He holds it out away from his face at arm’s length and takes a selfie, and when he reels his arm back in to look at it the waterworks almost start up again.  He’s got such a soft, happy, smile on his face, in his lips, in his eyes, and his pet looks so content and trusting and sweet there snoozing on his shoulder, little and wrapped around his neck.  

He sends it to Charlie.

One nanosecond later he receives:

**Charles:** OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

**Charles:** You DID it you actually DID IT I didn’t think you had it in you Winchester

**Charles:** IT IS ADORABLE I WANT ONE

**Charles:**  I WANT ONE NOW

His smiles at his phone and puts it on silent so that it won’t wake up his pet while Charlie continues to have her aneurysm, which he assumes will be long and drawn out but which will take too much arm movement for him to handle right now.

He tries to line up his breathing with his pet’s, because it’s so soothing, but it doesn’t quite work; his lungs are bigger, he guesses, and he’s not a sea creature, so he just needs to take longer breaths.    

Next he squirts some cleaning solution on his kitchen countertops and starts to clean them with a paper towel half-heartedly,  just to do something with himself so he’s not standing there awkwardly.  But his pet sniffs unhappily at the scent, and he can’t really concentrate on how good it feels to have a pet napping on his shoulder while he is trying to scrub crusted over marinara sauce off of his countertop with one hand.  So he throws the paper towel away and walks out into the living room, where the scent of the cleaning solution isn’t so strong.  His pet relaxes against his neck.  

He looks at his couch.  It’s pretty comfy.  Green and red plaid, like wrapping paper from hell, but it’s overstuffed in all the right places and it can’t be beat for naps.  It draws him in.  The little breaths huffing in and out against his neck start to sound more like coos than whistles on their exhales and they tickle against his collarbone.  He reaches up to stroke his right hand over one of his pet’s tentacles and it relaxes against his body and it just… makes all the stress melt out of his muscles.  Stress he hadn’t even realized he was carrying, little leftover worms of tension about money, about work, about being asexual and alone--

_ But you’re not alone, anymore--  _ he thinks to himself, and smiles.  

He lets himself sink into the couch.  He cups his hand around his little pet to make sure that no part of it gets smooshed between himself and the couch as he lays his head back against the end cushion and draws up his legs.  He listens to his pet coo its little breaths into his shoulder and lets his eyes droop closed and lets his body melt into the cushions.  

It feels different, laying down for a nap with a trusting little creature wrapped around him.  Different from laying down alone:  safer and more comfortable and warmer somehow.  Even if he can’t match his breaths to the ones cooing into his ear, just listening to them is soothing; concentrating on their sounds takes him out of his head and into a soft, sinking, slowness that turns into a golden-touched sleep.  

*****

Dean has good dreams, napping on the couch with his half-octopus.  

First he dreams of sinking down into salty depths, light sparkling through from high above and the weight of the water holding and comforting his body everywhere, not too hot, not too cold, just right.  It’s so quiet, and calm, and safe.  Nothing can get him here.  Here it’s just easy, and safe, forever.   

But after a while, he starts to feel alone, in the depths.  The scent is only of salt and seaweed, and he knows that there is… more.  Somewhere.  More, for him.  A scent that he can imagine, but doesn’t have the words for.  A scent not like anything in the depths.  A scent that must come from… above.  Where the light is brighter and sharper.  He wants to go there.  He wants to go there and not be alone.  

Before he can become melancholy, the dream changes.  

Now he is rested up on a beach.  The sun is warm on his skin and the sand is warm against his back.  There is a half-octopus there,  _ his  _ half-octopus, and it splashes in the water with such a happy look on its face, tentacles slapping down against the surface and hands clapping in delight when water droplets rise up and flash in the sun.  

It looks up at Dean, on the sand, as if suddenly realizing that Dean is not in the water with it, and darts through the surf, scurries up over the sand, and crawls onto Dean’s chest with little huffs of effort.  Its tentacles are still wet and they drip cool drops of water onto Dean’s sun-warmed chest.  

“Chu!”  It says, waving a tentacle at Dean, and scampering up closer to Dean’s face, presenting its cheek.  “Chu!”  

Dean gives it a light kiss on the cheek and it claps its hands and twirls around on Dean’s chest in a little circular dance, for a while, then hops off and scurries back into the water.  

His pet is just so happy.   _ Dean  _ made him happy.  He listens to the little splashes of tiny tentacles on water, and the feeling in his heart is warmer than the sun or the sand.  

*****

When Dean wakes up, his neck and his shoulder feel clammy and cold, and he groggily rubs his right hand over there, trying to figure out what’s wrong.  He realizes that there is no longer a half-octopus sleeping on his shoulder, and he bolts upright, heart hammering-- did he roll over and squish it?  Did it dry out in the sun?  How long has he been asleep????

But as he jackknifes into a sitting position, he hears a distressed  _ squawk _ and something tumbles into his lap.  Something with tentacles, that then scrabbles down his leg and clutches around his foot, hiding behind his big toe and chirping.   

Dean slumps with relief, and feels like a jerk for dislodging his pet so rudely.  It had just moved to his chest.  It was probably listening to his heartbeat, or sniffing his shirt, or keeping a lookout while he finished his nap.

(Yes it was doing all of these things, baring its tiny teeth to the cord on his curtains when it bumped against the wall after the air conditioner kicked on).  

It isn't squished.  It isn't dried out.  It’s OK.  Its OK.    

But it does look scared; it’s trembling and chirping softly and distressedly where it is hiding behind Dean's foot.  He waves at it, sheepishly, noticing that his sock has a hole in its big toe.  

“Sorry, buddy.  Sorry,” he says, but he knows that the words don’t make any sense to it, so he tries to put his contrition in his voice.  It seems to work, because the little half-octopus stops trembling, and peeks just its head out from behind his toe.

“Sorry,” he repeats, not knowing how else to explain.  At a loss, and because it’s the only way he knows how to communicate so far, and because it’s the only thing he knows for sure his pet likes, he says:  “Sorry.  Kisses?”  

His pet chirps more brightly, and scrambles up to his chest at a lightning pace, presenting its cheek again, just like in the dream.  And just like in the dream, Dean kisses it, light as he can, and just like in the dream, his heart feels warmer than the sun streaming in through the window.  

He pets a finger through its soft hair and it closes its eyes and leans into the touch, and hums happily.  Dean says again:  “Sorry, little guy.  I didn’t mean to scare you.  I was just afraid you were…  I was just afraid I wasn’t doing a good job, of taking care of you,” and his voice, still rough from sleep, breaks up a little at the end of that.  He wants to do a good job of taking care of his half-octopus.  He doesn’t want to drop it and make it squawk and be afraid.  

But it trusted him anyway, even though he did drop it, when he called it for kisses.  It didn't even hesitate.  Its heart must be sweet too, just like its snuggles, and its little huffing breaths and the way it lives for kisses.

His phone buzzes against his leg, then, as Dean is petting the soft hair of his pet with the sweet heart, and he pulls it out, to check the time, but doesn't stop petting.

He was napping for 2 hours.  He has 19 missed texts from Charlie.

**Charles:** Where did you get it?

**Charles:** I didn’t even know you could get half-octopi in Lawrence; I thought the closest place that had them was Kansas City.

 

Why Charlie would know this is a mystery to Dean.  But she’s a smart girl and she knows a lot.

 

**Charles:** Where did you GET it, googling like crazy here and nothing is coming up.

**Charles:** DID YOU BUY THAT SWEET THING FROM AN ILLEGAL BREEDING OPERATION?

**Charles:** So help me God, Dean, if you…

 

Dean is offended.  Charlie has known him for 25 years.  She should know he wouldn’t do that.

 

**Charles:** Breathing, breathing, taking a deep breath, I know you wouldn’t do that, I shouldn’t assume the worst.

**Charles:** But it is Just.  So.  Cute.  My protective instincts are flaring up.  

**Charles:** You know that my fire chi outbalances my water chi sometimes when there is injustice to cute things.  

 

There is then a 45 minute gap in the texts, during which time Dean assumes Charlie felt guilty about accusing him of buying a pet at an octopus mill and probably thought he was offended and giving her the silent treatment.  

 

**Charles:** Gahhhh I can’t take this!  I’m sorry!  I’ll do anything, just let me snuggle that octopus!

**Charles:** What’s its name? 

**Charles:** What does it eat?  

**Charles:** YOU’RE NOT FEEDING IT WORMS ARE YOU?

**Charles:** Does it have toys?  Did you get it toys?

**Charles:** PROBABLY NOT ENOUGH **.** I’m getting it toys.  

 

Another 45 minute gap in texts, during which time Dean assumes Charlie still felt guilty and so went to the biggest, boxiest, pet shop in Lawrence to buy all the octo toys.

 

**Charles:** I bought ten half-octopus toys at PetWorld. 

**Charles:** Is that too many?

**Charles:** Half-octopi are smart, they need to be stimulated.

**Charles:** You’re not even reading any of my texts, are you?

**Charles:**  Probably too snuggled up with your pet octopus that you love more than me now. :’’’’’’’(

 

That’s the one that just buzzed against his leg.  

 

**Dean:** Hey, Charlie, no, I didn’t get your texts, I was napping

**Dean:** Yes, with my octopus

**Dean:** No, that I did not get in an illegal octopus breeding ring

**Dean:** No, I am not feeding it worms

**Dean:** No, I did not get it toys I don’t know if 10 will fit in its tank.

**Dean:** It's only about the size of a microwave.

 

**Charles:** THEN YOU BETTER MAKE SOME ROOM FOR THEM IN YOUR BATHTUB YOU BARBARIAN

**Charles:** I’m coming over.

 

Dean realizes that… he doesn’t want Charlie to come over.  And he almost always wants Charlie to come over.  But he just… he wants more time with his little guy.  He wants to show it that it can trust him.  He doesn’t want it to be overwhelmed with more voices and scents, and be afraid.  He just wants… He just wants this for himself.  To care for his sweet pet and make it feel safe.  

 

**Dean:** Hey uh… I’m pretty beat and uh… sleepy from my nap and I think uh, my guy’s a little stressed still, still getting used to my place...so uhhh… it might be too much for him to have visitors right now with like… ten toys?  

**Charles:** Deannifer Julius Winchester, YOU WANT TO HOG THAT CUDDLE MONSTER ALL TO YOURSELF.

**Dean:** Uh…

**Charles:** Acceptable.  But I WILL CUDDLE YOUR PET SOON.

 

She concludes by sending him a picture of… one?? of the toys she bought at PetWorld with the caption HE WILL LOVE ME MORE.  It’s hard to tell if it’s just one toy because it’s so… elaborate?  It looks like a kind of jungle gym that could go inside an octopus tank?  But correspondingly more complicated than a regular human jungle gym as in to account for the fact that its user will have 10 limbs instead of 2?  And also obviously smaller?

Dean shows the picture to his pet, thinking maybe it will like it or maybe recognize it (?), but it just bats the phone away because it is in between itself and its goal of climbing back on to Dean’s shoulder from his chest.  

Dean scrolls absentmindedly back through Charlie’s texts, once his pet is again secure on his shoulder, not sleeping this time but rippling its tentacles and swiveling its head around to huff in all the scents in Dean's living room (whiskey, more motor oil, flannel.)  It seems to like these better than the kitchen cleanser, as its huffs keep getting deeper and deeper and its rippling doesn't slow down.

Dean reaches a hand up to lace his fingers through the rippling tentacles and ease them, but he freezes when he re-reads  _ What’s its name  _ in his text history _.   _

Dean does not know what its name is!  If it has one, if he should give it one… he didn’t think to ask.  It wasn’t written on the tank at Loki’s, like GABE was.  The tank did say that half-octopi were pretty smart, so that makes him think he should at least try to ask if his pet has a name that it prefers before just giving out some stupid one of his own like Neptune or Triton or some other probably racist-against-half-octopuses bullshit.

He is anxious; he wants to remedy this right away.  So he plucks his octopus up from his shoulder and sets it down gently on his chest.  It chirps sadly, and points at Dean's shoulder with one of its tentacles.  But Dean shakes his head and holds his finger up-- _ one second--  _ like he did in the post shop.  

His octopus lowers its tentacle uncertainly, and tilts its head to the side, ready to try to understand again.

Dean points slowly and deliberately at himself, and says “Dean.”  

His pet's eyes narrow, concentrating fiercely.  

Dean keeps pointing at himself and says “Dean,” again, and then realizes that for all his little guy knows, he is pointing at the flannel pattern on his shirt, or its buttons, or his chest.  So he digs his wallet out from his jeans pocket, careful not to dislodge his octopus, and flips it open to his driver’s license.  “Dean,” He says a third time.  

His pet's eyes squint up so tight Dean almost can't see their blue anymore (but he  _ can  _ see it, that blue is so bright, unreal bright), and then understanding breaks on its face.  “Dean!”  it cries out, throwing its arms up in the air and smiling,  “Dean Dean Dean!  Dean kisses!!!!”  

And something wraps tight around Dean's heart then.  Something warm and wide and sweet like salt water.  “Dean kisses,” He repeats, softly, so happy, and scoots his pet up us chest until he can give it another soft kiss on the cheek.

It makes grabby hands for more, but Dean holds his finger up again, and sets it back down on his chest for more talking.  It stills immediately, hands at its sides, head tilted again.  

Dean once again points at himself and says “Dean,” and then points directly at his pet's chest and raises his eyebrow.  He repeats this.  “Dean,” pointing at himself, followed by eyebrow raised finger pointing at his pet's chest.

The little octopus tentatively reaches out a tiny finger and points it at Dean.  “Dean,” it says carefully, and then points at itself.  

Dean is on the edge of his seat as its finger turns.  He feels like he's about to crest something big, important.  He’s about to  _ know  _ something.

When it is fully pointing at itself, it opens its unreal eyes big, and they flash again as it says “Castiel.”

“Castiel,”  Dean says, fascinated, turning the name over on his tongue, feeling it out. He’s never heard that name before.  Castiel nods, and holds his wrists behind his back, and taps the point of one tentacle against Dean's chest.  He looks like he might almost be… Blushing?

Dean gathers him up in two hands and holds him up to his face.  “Castiel...kisses?” He asks, and sticks out his cheek.  

“Castiel kisses Dean!” Castiel chirps, and puts six little smooches down on Dean's cheek.  Then he scoots back down to Dean's chest and starts doing the very same circular happy dance that he did in Dean's dream.  

Dean holds up a protective arm around Castiel so he won't spin too hard and fall off.  With his other hand he texts Charlie:

**Dean:** His name is Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hashtag fics that have taken over my life


	3. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel clasps his hands in front of his chest and looks at Dean with such big, bright, eyes, that Dean’s heart feels like it might burst. He thinks of his dream, of Castiel on the beach, in a better body of water than a turkey pot, out in the sun, and he looks at his clock again and sees it’s still early, and decides “Fuck it. We’re going to the lake.”

Chapter 3:  Sunshine

 _Look out your window I can see his light_ _  
_ _If we can sparkle he may land tonight_

-Starman, David Bowie

 

Dean wakes up on his back, on his couch, with Castiel still curled around his shoulder, little arms still wrapped around his neck, head rested against his jaw, still snoozing and huffing little coo-snores.  Their nap was sleepy and sweet, and Dean doesn’t want to wake back up, stumble around with bony feet on hard floors making dinner in the too bright, buzzing light before getting to go back to that sleep again.  Being awake now only feels sharp and cotton mouthed and exhausting. It’s Saturday evening, and Dean wants to skip trying to wake back up to listlessly make hamburger helper and just as listlessly eat it just to make time before he can go back to sleep.  He just wants to snuggle Castiel to his chest and climb the stairs to his bedroom and slip under the covers and drift down into that perfect sleep feeling again. Mmmm. His eyes slip closed, and his right hand strays up to stroke one of Castiel’s tentacles.  It is still so soft and smooth, and now it is warm from the sun, and Castiel’s coos turn to little gurgles as he strokes.

Castiel shows no sign whatsoever of loosening his hold on Dean’s shoulder, and has in fact not shown at any time in their entire acquaintance any sign of wanting to do anything at all besides give and receive kisses and sniff and snuggle at Dean’s neck.  But Dean thinks that he can’t _just_ slip upstairs and into pajamas and into bed without waking Cas, or rather that he shouldn’t, that it would be irresponsible of him.  Cas will probably want to soak himself back in salt water at some time in the night, Dean imagines, or even if he doesn’t want to, Dean wants him to have the option.  Dean does _not_ want Castiel laying on his pillow getting all dry and itchy just because Dean didn’t give him the option of getting back in the water.  Because Dean is going to let Castiel sleep in bed with him, no question about it now after their nap, and he thinks with a tug of a smile on his lips that one of his pillows would make a perfect little bed for a melon-sized octopus.  

Dean wants to leave the full octopus tank in his kitchen, that will be more convenient for adjusting the salination and making little meals of algae and fish for Castiel.  So he doesn’t even think about moving it up into his bedroom. Instead, he pads into the kitchen in his socks and leans over (carefully, so he doesn’t dislodge Castiel) to pull out his biggest pot-- the one he uses to make turkey soup out of the carcass after thanksgiving.  

He fills it up with room temperature water and, checking the little pamphlet that came with Castiel’s tank, carefully pours in four tablespoons of sea salt.  He stirs the water gently with a big wooden spoon, until there aren’t any salt crystals left clumped at the bottom of the pot. Then he reaches up with his left hand to extricate Castiel from his shoulder.

Though Dean is gentle with Castiel, and does not yank on him or squeeze him too hard, Castiel’s whole body, torso and tentacles, all goes rigid as soon as Dean starts to try to pull him away.  He chirps with distress, and then all his tentacles squeeze down tighter onto Dean’s shoulder. “Dean!” He squeaks, tentacles rolling and suckers gripping on to the flannel of Dean’s shirt and tearing away with soft ssshs as Dean moves him towards the pot of water.    

Dean pauses.  He turns his head and tries to look down at Castiel, though it is hard to do without crossing his eyes with Castiel right up against his neck.  

“Castiel,” he says, and then dunks his empty right hand into the salt water pot.  “Water.”

But Castiel shakes his head and buries his face in Dean’s neck.  “Castiel, _Dean_ ,”  he says, little arms wrapping around Dean’s neck even if they can’t reach all the way.  “Dean Dean Dean.”

“Ok, Buddy,” Dean says, releasing his hold on Castiel’s body and instead stroking the back of his neck with one finger.  That’s pretty clear, what Cas wants. “Ok.”

Dean picks up the turkey-soup pot and starts to lug it upstairs.  “I just don’t want you to dry out, little guy.” He knows that Castiel doesn’t understand the words, but he figures that if Castiel is _ever_ going to understand his words he’ll have to keep talking to him, so he gets the chance to learn them.  Remembering what the card on Castiel’s tank at the pet store said about telepathy, he also _imagines_ what he is trying to communicate to Cas-- an image of Castiel laying on his pillow upstairs, all dried out and listless, skin dry and flaky and tentacles twitching unhappily.

Castiel squeaks, and squeezes his arms around Dean’s neck.  “Dean!” He says, and Dean is shocked full with panic that may be his and may be Castiel’s, but either way makes his heart hurt.  He wants this feeling to go away, right away. But since he can’t reach up to comfort Castiel while he is carrying a stock pot full of salt water, he instead imagines Castiel swimming happily in the pot of water, all sleek and shiny and happy, doing his flippy cartwheels or coming over to the side and resting his arms on the lip of the pot and tilting his head up so Dean can give him kisses.  

“OK, Cas, it’s OK,” he says.  “Just gotta take care of you. Don’t want to scare you.  Just want you to have everything you need and be comfy and feel safe, OK?  OK, Cas?”

“OK, Dean,” Cas says, voice quiet because he says it into the skin of Dean’s neck.  “OK.”

Dean’s not sure if Castiel understands him, or is just echoing him, and feels a lingering sadness from making Castiel afraid, like now Castiel might think Dean is going to torture him by drying him out. _And he clings to you anyway,_ Dean thinks.   _His sweet little heart doesn’t want to let go.  He wants to wrap his little arms around you, more than he is afraid of being out of the water._ Dean tears up, hating that there might be this misunderstanding, however unintentional, between him and Castiel.  He wants to do better. He wants to be worth it. He wants to deserve Castiel’s easy blue eyed trust. He resolves that he will.  He _will_ be better.  He _will_ deserve it.  He will give Castiel the best life that a melon-sized octopus can have, with all the snuggles and naps and kisses and little bits of tuna and splashing in water under the sun that can fit.

When he gets upstairs, he lugs the soup pot over to the side of his bed, but it’s a little too low just sitting on the ground; a few inches lower than his mattress and he hates the idea of Castiel having to jump.  So, he dumps his dirty laundry out of his laundry basket, turns it over, and puts the soup pot on top. Now its lip is a few inches above the edge of his mattress, and Castiel should be able to climb in easily.

He sits down on his bed, with his thigh up against the cold aluminum of the soup pot.  

“Castiel,” he says, and wraps his hand around Castiel’s body again, but doesn’t pull yet.  

“Dean,” Castiel says, and squeezes on tighter, and breaks Dean’s heart with a tiny whimper.  

“I’m sorry I scared you, little guy,” Dean says, trying to make sure his voice sounds sad, since Castiel can’t understand the words.  “I just… I haven’t had a pet before, or anyone… or a pet, before, and I just wanna make sure I don’t mess up. Wanna make sure I take care of you right.”  And he knows that Castiel can’t understand that either, so he imagines:

Holding Castiel to his chest when he lays down for bed, giving him little kisses on both of his cheeks and his forehead.

Cupping Castiel in to his chest, right against his heart, right where it beats, for the night.

Stroking his index finger down Castiel’s back while they fall asleep, Dean’s eyes drifting shut to the sound of Castiel cooing and stroking a tentacle up against Dean’s cheek.

Waking up with Castiel splashing in his pot of water in the sunlight, slapping his tentacles against the surface of the water and laughing just like he did in Dean’s dream.  

Holding Castiel to his chest again, Castiel’s tentacles wrapped around his forearm, as he stumbles downstairs to make breakfast with his hair half smooshed from sleeping.

Cutting up little pieces of algae and tuna and feeding them to Castiel with his fingers.

Letting Castiel sit in the palms of his fishy smelling hands after breakfast, and raising them up to his face, so they can look at each other.  Kissing Castiel on the forehead, and seeing his eyes flash.

“See, guy,” Dean says, still all teared up, but now for a different reason.  “See, I wanna take care of you, that’s all. Don’t be scared.”

Castiel climbs a little way down Dean’s arm, so he can look Dean in the face.  His eyes are big and wide and blue, and his lower lip is quivering.

 _Oh God_ , Dean thinks.   _What did I do, I made it worse, I made him cry._   

But then Castiel reaches out one tentacle, and slides it gently down Dean’s cheek, soaking up the salt tears under Dean’s left eye.  He repeats for Dean’s right. “OK, Dean. Take care of you,” he says, and though his voice is pitched high it is very serious. “Castiel take care of Dean.”  

And that is too much, too much, everything that is tight in Dean’s heart turns to saltwater then, and overflows from his eyes.  

But Castiel takes care of him.  Castiel soaks up every teardrop with his soft, smooth, tentacles, and they only shine and gleam.  Castiel is a creature made of tears and he can absorb them, no matter how many of them fall. He strokes Dean’s face with one tentacle and coos at him, and rubs the back of his neck with another and holds himself on Dean’s shoulder with the rest.  “OK, Dean, OK,” he says sometimes, if Dean sobs too hard, but he doesn’t give Dean kisses. Dean is too sad, and that wouldn’t be right. Now he is taking care, and that is not the right time, for kisses. That is the time to be brave, and Castiel knows how to be brave.  He was brave when he told Gabriel that he wanted to leave the deep. He was brave when he kissed his sister goodbye. And he can be brave now, for Dean.

They fall asleep the way Dean imagined, Castiel clung to Dean’s chest, up against his heart, one tentacle extended to touch Dean’s cheek.  As Dean drifts under, he thinks that he hears Castiel singing him a song, and he thinks it is a brave song of the rolling, salty, sea though he doesn’t understand the words.  

 

*****

Dean wakes to the sound of splashes.  

Just like he imagined.  Just like he dreamed.

Castiel, in his turkey pot, slapping at the water with his tentacles and doing somersaults that roll around and around under the surface.  Dean watches him through a cracked eye, trying to not to let on that he is awake, trying just to watch that selfless joy as Castiel flips and zips back and forth in the water with quick swirls of his tentacles.  

“Morning, Cas” he says finally, with a long stretch and a big smile pulling on his face.  It’s sunny in his room because he didn’t shut the blind last night, and his alarm clock says 10AM, and normally both of those facts would annoy him on a Sunday morning but for how early he slept last night and how well, and the happy sight that he woke to.  

Castiel immediately zips over to the side of the turkey pot, and rests his arms on it, tilting his cheek up towards Dean.  “Morning! Dean! Kisses!” he chirps, and Dean rolls over to the edge of the bed so he can put a tiny peck on both of Castiel’s cheeks.  

“Dean!  Morning!” Castiel chirps again, and maybe blushes, but Dean can’t tell for sure because it’s only a second before Castiel dives back under the surface of the water and starts to turn a much more elaborate somersault, rotating in several directions at once and seeming to loop himself through himself in impossible patterns.

When it is done, he pops his head back up out of the water and says “Morning, Dean!” Again.

“Mornin’, buddy,” Dean says, rubbing at his still sleepy face with the back of his hand.

Castiel clasps his hands in front of his chest and looks at Dean with such big, bright, eyes, that Dean’s heart feels like it might burst.  He thinks of his dream, of Castiel on the beach, in a better body of water than a turkey pot, out in the sun, and he looks at his clock again and sees it’s still early, and decides “Fuck it.  We’re going to the lake.”

 

*****

 **Dean:** We’re going to the lake.

 **Charles:** WE as in you and CASTIEL the precious octopus and MOI?????

 **Charles:** This better be for real don’t ock-block me, Winchester.  

 **Charles:** I AM GOING TO SNUGGLE YOUR OCTOPUS.

 **Charles:** Some of the toys, some of them, not all of them, are appropriate for the lake.

 **Charles:** BUT I WILL BRING THEM ALL because as we have established you are a barbarian and probably let that sweet bab sleep in a stock pot with no toys in it AT ALL AM I WRONG.  

 **Dean:** He had a choice between a pillow and the stock pot.  

 **Charles:** THE THANKSGIVING TURKEY POT???? YOU ARE A MONSTER!

 **Charles:** What did he choose?

 **Dean:** Neither?  Or, well, at first he wouldn’t let go of my shoulder…

 **Charles:** SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

 **Dean:** And then when we went to sleep he kind of like cuddled up against my chest…

 **Charles:** LIES!  YOU cuddled him to your chest, YOU did it, it was a MUTUAL cuddle, I KNOW IT,

 **Dean:** *We* cuddled with him in the on my chest position, and then like, he reached up a tentacle to touch my face…

 **Charles:** SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

 **Dean:** But when I woke up he was in the water.  

 **Dean:** So I guess he chose the water?

 **Dean:** Over the pillow, I mean.  

 **Charles:** You mean he CHOSE YOUR HUNKY BOD UNTIL HE WAS TOO DRIED OUT AND JUMPED IN A TURKEY POT BECAUSE HE HAD NO OTHER CHOICE.

 **Charles:**????????

 **Dean:** I guess.

 **Charles:**  Benny’s, 3PM.  I AM GOING TO STEAL YOUR OCTOPUS.

 

*****

 

Dean and Castiel arrive at a dock on the southeast coast of Clinton Lake at 1PM.  Their friend Benny has a catfish shack there, with a weather-beaten plank bar and a tiny strip of private access to the lake that has real white sand and no crowds, even on a beautiful, sunny, Sunday.  

They arrive with an old, faded, beach towel, an equally faded igloo cooler filled with snacks for Cas, and a huge popcorn bucket that Dean can fill with lake water and table salt, if Cas needs a dip.  He’s not sure whether swimming in lake water will extend Castiel’s time out of salt water, being equally wet, or like, suck the salt out of Cas and mean he needs a dip sooner. He’s prepared, either way, and this time he does _not_ telepath over an image of Castiel dried out and twitching on the beach to try to check.  

Charlie said 3, but they arrive at 1.  Dean thinks that the lakefront might be a lot for Castiel to handle, with the sun and the sounds of all the other people and the scents of frying catfish, and Charlie might _also_ be a lot for Castiel to handle, with her ten toys and grabby hands and “scree” noises that she absolutely will make in real life and not just in texts.  He doesn’t want Castiel to have to take in all of that all at once. He doesn’t want him to be scared or overwhelmed. He wants Castiel to feel safe, and have a good time at the beach.  So he thinks he’ll start out with Castiel just meeting Benny, just inside, not exposed to all the splashing and screaming and motor revving on the lake. Benny is a lot easier to meet than Charlie, Dean thinks:  he moves slow and steady and his voice is a low baritone that’s full of brown sugar.

So at 1PM Dean sidles up to Benny where he’s cleaning glasses behind the bar of his catfish shack.  Dean’s got a towel draped over one shoulder, and Castiel wrapped around the other one; he’s wearing swim trunks and a white tank top and raybans pushed up on his head, rubber flip flops on his feet.    

“Hey, Brother,” Benny greets him, eyes taking in the half-octopus on Dean’s shoulder with easy acceptance, no surprise or shock or even any modulation of his open, wecloming, face at all.  “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” Dean says, the hand that’s not holding the cooler creeping up to rub at the back of his neck.  He doesn’t really have a reason for not having been out to the lake in months. Other than liking weekend naps more than weekend crowds.  Even before he had Castiel to take them with.

“S’pose I do,” Benny says, everything easy about him.  That’s why Dean likes him so much, he is so stoic, doesn’t get all worked up about every damn thing.  He’s _steady_. “Who’s your new friend, there?”  He asks, pointing a hand covered in a bar towel at Castiel.  

“Oh, yeah, uh, this is Castiel.  Cas. Half-octopus. I’ve been uh, just been taking care of him since yesterday, he’s new.”  

Dean looks down at Cas.  “Cas?” Castiel looks up at him.  “Cas.” He says again, pointing at Cas, then “Dean,” he says, pointing at himself.  

“Dean!” Castiel says, very excited, throwing his arms up into the air.  

Dean blushes, in spite of himself.  “Yes. Cas…” he points, “Dean…” he points at himself, “Benny,” he points at Benny.  

“Benny?”  Castiel says, his voice rising up in a question.  

“Yes!”  Dean says, proud again of how smart Castiel is.  “Yes, Cas, that’s Benny. Our friend.”

“Ok, Benny!”  Cas says, “OK!” And gives Benny a big smile.  Not the same one that he gives to Dean though, Dean notices.  His eyes aren’t open as wide. And they don’t flash.

Benny grumbles out his big bear laugh.  “Ok, Cas,” he says to Castiel, then to Dean, “Smart little guy, eh?”  Castiel’s little head swivels back and forth as Dean and Benny talk, like he is trying to learn to understand every word they say.  Such a good little octopus.

“Yeah, that was part of the reason I picked him.  I liked the thought of, I dunno, being able to communicate with my pet a little, you know?”  

Benny’s look gets a lot more serious then, and his voice is kind when he says, “Yeah, brother, I can see that.”  Dean has slumped over Benny’s plank bar and drank enough beers enough evenings after enough dates gone wrong to be able to see almost immediately why a pet like Castiel would be so good for Dean.  He’s happy, for his friend.

“‘S he eat catfish?”  He asks next, not making a whole big deal out of it, not like Charlie is sure to, and Dean is thankful for that.  

“Hm, I’m not sure.  Probably just plain, without all the cajun stuff on it and whatever?”

“You got it, Brother.  One plain catfish, without all the cajun stuff, comin’ up.”  

“Oh, and an extra large extra NOT plain catfish, with ALL that cajun stuff, for me.  And a beer. Cheapest, coldest, one you got.”

Benny salutes Dean with two fingers.  “You gonna use the beach?”

“Yeah, and Charlie will be coming in a while too… she’s probably going to be carrying, like 3 times her weight in octo toys and vibrating like a pressure cooker about to explode, so you might wanna be on the look out for that.”  

“Will do, Brother,” Benny says with a smile, easily able to imagine Charlie entering like that and knowing that Dean is not exaggerating even one bit.  

Dean flips Benny the Peace sign with two fingers as he turns and heads down to the beach.  

“Catfish?” Castiel asks, from Dean’s shoulder, and Dean guesses he must have picked up that a catfish is a water creature from Dean’s thoughts while he was ordering from Benny.  

“Yeah, Cas, catfish,” Dean answers, and tries to imagine a catfish in as much detail as he can, which is actually not that much.  Even so, too late, he realizes that a catfish is much bigger than Castiel, when Castiel squeaks and buries his face in Dean’s neck.  

“Shhh, sshh, it’s OK, Cas,” Dean says, soothing Castiel’s back with his index finger, wondering when, if ever, he is going to stop being such a dunderhead and stop scaring Cas every time he tries to explain something.  Or maybe, he thinks a second later, a bit more kindly to himself, he’s not a dunderhead at all but Castiel is out in a world that is completely new to him, he’s tiny, he could get smooshed or eaten or poisoned by almost everything around him, and his reaction is going to be fear a lot of the time, even if Dean does his best.  

Dean still wants to do better though.  So he tries to describe: “Benny cooks catfish, makes ‘em real tasty to eat.  Fill up our bellies,” and he imagines Benny handing them over grease-spotted cardboard platters of catfish and french fries, all spicy and delicious smelling.  He imagines himself eating a humongous bite, and tearing off a tiny little bite for Cas. He makes sure the bite he tears off in his imagination is very, very tiny.  And he skips the part of this whole process where Benny filets the fish and tosses it in boiling oil.

“Eat catfish?”  Castiel asks, turning his face away from Dean’s neck a little bit.   “Castiel and Dean eat catfish?”

“Yeah, that’s right, buddy,” Dean says, smoothing his hand down Castiel’s back to hold a tentacle in his palm.  “You can just try a little piece in case you don’t like it.”

“OK, Dean!  OK! Castiel and Dean eat catfish!”  And just like that, Castiel seems excited and happy again, his fear all gone.  

 _I’m getting better already_ , Dean thinks.   _Maybe I’m gonna be able to do ok._ He hopes so.  He hopes so much that he can do right by his little octopus.

 

*****

Dean applies suntan lotion to his bare skin while they wait for Benny to bring down their catfish.  He’s too fair, and has too many freckles already, to want to spend a day on the lake without it. But Castiel doesn’t like it.  He keeps sniffing suspiciously at the fake coconut scent, occasionally lapping his tiny tongue out to taste it, then making chirpy disgusted noises and spitting it back out again when it just tastes like bitter chemicals instead of coconut or Dean.

Dean thinks this must mean that half-octopi don’t use sunscreen, but he’s a little worried about letting Castiel go out and get all gleamy wet without any.  Castiel’s torso is very pale, and he hates to even think about how much it might hurt if his little tentacles got sunburned.

The next time Castiel takes a taste and spits it out, he makes same disgusted chirp but then he crawls down Dean’s arm a little and looks at him with his head tilted and says “Dean?” Like he requires an explanation for why Dean would cover himself in this stuff.  

Dean stops and thinks for a moment this time, to come up with an explanation that won’t scare Cas like he did with the water pot and the catfish.  He rejects, for example, the first idea that comes to mind, which is imagining himself turning all red and getting blisters. Instead he decides to send Castiel a series of images.  First, his skin, as it is, then the sun, then his skin again but now completely covered with freckles. “The sun gives me freckles,” he says, and then imagines a new sequence: His skin, then covering it with the sunscreen, then the sun, then his skin again, with no more freckles.  “Using the sunscreen keeps my skin safe.”

Castiel squints really hard, held completely still on Dean’s forearm, trying so hard to understand.  Then he speaks, slowly. “Sun,” and he points at the sky with a tentacle. “Freckles,” and he points at a freckle on Dean’s chest.  

He looks up at Dean to see if he’s got it right so far, and Dean nods encouragement. “Yeah, that’s right, buddy.”  

Thus encouraged, he continues on.  “Sunscreen,” he points at the tube lying on the side of their towel, “No freckles?”  He sounds SO disappointed when he says this.

“That’s right Cas.  Sunscreen is good for my skin.”  

Castiel, to Dean’s surprise, shakes his head vehemently.  “NO. Dean. NOT GOOD. Sunscreen NOT OK,” and while Dean is trying to puzzle that out, Castiel scurries down off Dean’s chest, over to the sunscreen, picks it up, scurries over to the water line, and throws the tube in the water as far as he can (which is about 2 feet).  

Then, quick as he can, he rolls back over to Dean, back up onto his chest, and lays his hands and head down on Dean’s heart.  “Freckles,” he says, adoringly. “More freckles, Dean! More freckles for kisses!”

Then, Dean’s heart implodes, because Castiel starts kissing every freckle on his chest.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says kind of shakily.  He has a lot of freckles. This might take a long time.  But Dean doesn’t mind. He lays back on his towel, flips his raybans down over his eyes, and pillows his hands under his head.

He thinks he might get a sunburn now, if he doesn’t go retrieve his sunblock before it floats out to sea, but he just can’t find it in himself to care.  Besides, Charlie will probably bring forty-five tubes with forty-five different use cases and be happy to share.

He tries to just not worry about it.  All he has to do right now is lay in the sun and accept little freckle kisses and wait for his friend to bring him out fresh fried cajun catfish and a beer.  He can do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that the end of this chapter is so sweet it might give you a cavity. 
> 
> Also thank you all for so many nice comments. They really motivated me to work on this over other WIPs I've got going on right now! (The Burn angst-fest is ongoing and it's also nice to have such a fluffy escape from that). 
> 
> On tumblr I am brainheartpizza https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brainheartpizza

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 I think will be called "Naps". 2 of a planned ish 4, and they will be something like Kisses, Naps, Sunshine, and Ice Cream.


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